Summer Wishes
Fresh cherries ripened upon the weeping bough,
alive with rustic sheen, taut of skin;
perfect teeth cleave through the surface flesh
and spit away unpalatable stone;
for it has no meaning,
existing to be discarded, forgotten.
Yet without it
there would be no more cherries.
How easy it is to pass things by,
to give so much less than a second thought
to that which is trailed in the white-water rapids
of youth's turbulent propulsion.
In these shallow waters, idealism
is baptised like a beloved curse,
a holy grail kissed by reflections of a golden sun;
embraced and caressed as a lifelong companion
with lively but faint hints of desperation,
as if a sixth sense of it's true nature, fragility,
has already begun to nag.
Reality cast out - like cherry stones - from those
dreams of the walkers
on highways paved with bejewelled optimism.
Let the dreamers have their dreams;
let them reach and touch the surface of the sun,
for who knows if they will ever get burned?
How I wish I were like them still.
How I envy them the sweet palatial sweep of an open mind.
Yet, perhaps they should beware of
Summer wishes, wrought from innocence, on still,
humid nights;
wishes made upon the stars above;
beware their wishes are not falling upon the
cold space debris of
an Apollo rocket.
Or some other soulless man made hardware.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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